


Happy Face's Allowed

by ApplesAcre



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 23:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApplesAcre/pseuds/ApplesAcre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat and John floating fluff. I wrote this for the kink meme a while ago, and I still haven't finished it. I just needed to post something while I work on my new stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Face's Allowed

This is a list of things that should have made you into a depressed paranoid freak. Your world is gone. A dog bird with a sword through its chest murdered your father. The only human still alive that you could have children with is currently a gray spluttering monster closely reminiscent to the biozombies from popular culture. You will never, ever, meet Nicolas Cage in person.

You are a balloon. You are filled to popping with energy and oxygen. You sink and sway with each passing whim of the air inside you. And at this moment in time, in this version of space, you are incredibly happy.

“Euphoric” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.

Sunken eyes and sharp teeth have clouded your judgment. His angled shoulders and skinny legs, the way he types with long, pointed fingers, the way you’ve never seen him smile, but you can picture it. You can picture it so well.

“Beautiful” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first that comes to mind.

His toenails are pointed. You make this observation from the floor. You don’t know why you’re on the floor. But it seems like a logical thing for you to be doing. You guess.

As Karkat nears, you begin to stand, mostly automatically. By the times he’s reached the spot of floor your body had claimed, you are completely vertical. He glances up at you; eyes widening to expand his range while keep head movement to a minimum. His expanded eyes give his face a bit of a softer feel. Not quite happy, not quite anything, but you still feel lucky to have seen it. Not that you know when you got taller than him. He raises his left eyebrow and puffs a stream of air out his nose.

“The ‘Awkward out of place’ feel really works for you.” He insults lazily, another puff of wind is forced from his face before he closes his deep eyes and skids away.

Sometimes you think that if you put your lips to one of Karkat’s orifices and blew air through him, his whole body would become softer, and all his sunken features would rise from their depths. Then he would smile with lips that weren’t drawn to frown. And if you blew in a bit more, he would soften enough to smile at you. And that’s not innuendo. Not. At. All.

You love these little encounters, even if they all end in you being insulted. They leave you light and full of new hope.

“Floating” isn’t the right word but yes it really is when did the ground get that far away from you.

You flail about madly, blue clothed arms hitting celling that you have gotten far to close to. The floor reaches you at some point, knocking into your chest; and you just lie there, deflated but not defeated. You feel so light and breezy. Just keeping your body lying flat and unmoving on the ground consumes all your brain activity. Maybe you should stop lying on the floor of an asteroid space station. The elements in the structure could be toxic, and you should avoid face contact with it, accidental or otherwise. Quick! Run to check if lightheadedness is a symptom for lead poisoning!

Lightheadedness may be a symptom of: dehydration, pregnancy, low blood sugar, anemia, cold and flu. See also: death. May cause nausea and vomiting.

Perhaps lightheadedness isn’t the right word. Or cluster of words that form a word. Light-headed-ness. Totally rad word party action. The floor, you conclude, has some sort of solid helium content that, combined with your windy powers, promotes subconscious floating. This sounds logical.

No more random floor sprawling. You wonder how you will cope. With a sandwich you decide.

Time is just an idea here. All the computers/husktops have different times according to which time zone they where active in on their respective planet; so people just do what they want when they want. At this moment, one hour after your body was contaminated with space helium, and twenty minutes after you concluded that you wanted a sandwich, you’re skipping through a hall, thinking thoughts of cured lunchmeats and the badly smashed bread that accompanies it. As you round the corner, on top one of the steel counters, you see Karkat-for the second time in exactly one hour and twenty minutes- roasting what looked like a poptart over the open flame of a terrible smelling candle. It has the essence of elderly women and overused lavatory.

You don’t notice you’re staring until the poptart stops its cycle of spinning and burning, though even then you can’t force your eyes away from the blackening rectangle and the clawed fingers holding it’s flaking edges. His eyes flash up and lock on to your face, though your fixation with the now very much on fire poptart keeps you from noticing.

“Fuck off john.” Karkat shifts his hands around slightly to keep from burning himself. “Get your own fruit paste filled sweet crust. This took for-fucking-ever to cook.” You still don’t look at him. If you did, you would have been meet with a hilariously feral display of fangs, one that if witnessed you’d be required by trickster law to mock. Instead you focus on the ever-larger hole burnt into the pastry, out of which aforementioned fruit paste is leaking.

“Uh dude. We made a toaster you know.” Your glance up now, and he’s looking at you like you’ve just declared that Africa was a country. Not that Karkat understands the comparison used here. But it’s accurate since the exhaustion that sparks across his face, and the sigh that escapes his gray lips are unmistakably condescending.

He shifts the foodstuff to the palm of his left hand, not feeling the molten sugar that runs down his arm, or simply not caring. “John” He forces from his mouth that has become decidedly line like. “What is toast?”

“Oh gosh, sorry. I thought that you would, uh know.” He rolls his eyes as you fumble around with the words. “The noun or the verb?” A tongue is clicked; you feel the fluff resting in your stomach engage. The word toast, as used in toaster is the verb. Yeah. But, so hungry. Bread. Toast. Yeah. What? “Its like, bread. That’s cooked, and uh, stuff. Then it gets hard and you can-

“Stop your fucking babbling. Yes. Bread. And this” He moves the hand on which the poptart resides in a circular motion, tossing bits of ashen crust around the counter. “Is NOT a fucking piece of your earth ‘bread’. So why, the ever pitying fuck, would I put it in a ‘toaster’?”


End file.
